From the whole of this ghastly assemblage
there rose not the slightest sound. A stillness, as of a dead and ruined
world, possessed in all its quarters the appalling scene. The deep
echoes of the sentries' footsteps and the faint dirging of the
melancholy winds were no more. The blood that had as yet dripped from
his wound, made no sound now in the Pagan's ear; even his own agony of
terror was as silent as were the visionary demons who had aroused it.
Days, years, centuries, seemed to pass, as he lay gazing up, in a trance
of horror, into his realm of peopled and ghostly darkness. At last
nature yielded under the trial; the phantom prospect suddenly whirled
round him with fearful velocity, and his senses sought refuge from the
thraldom of their own creation in a deep and welcome swoon.
Time had moved wearily onward, the chiding winds had many times waved
the dry locks of his hair to and fro about his brow, as if to bid him
awaken and arise, ere he again recovered his consciousness. Once more
aroused to the knowledge of his position and the sensation of his wound,
he slowly raised himself upon his uninjured arm, and looked wildly
around for the faintest appearance of a gleam of light.
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